


Bridegroom Breedwhore

by HaroThar



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Aliens, Branding, Breed Kink, Breeding, Bridenapped, Consensual turned nonconsensual, Dubious Consent, Egg Laying, Eggpreg, Fae & Fairies, Feynapped, Forced Marriage, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Long-Haired Shiro (Voltron), M/M, Marriage by Abduction, Minor Allura/Lotor (Voltron), Minor Character Death, Mpreg, Multiple Orgasms, Oral Fixation (mild), Orgasm Delay/Denial, Oviposition, Pregnancy Kink, Prehensile dick, Tentacle Dick
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-13
Updated: 2020-04-13
Packaged: 2021-03-02 02:07:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23637301
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HaroThar/pseuds/HaroThar
Summary: Shiro gets kidnapped by a fey and alien prince and forced into a marriage. He unexpectedly becomes the host to Keith's clutch, and while he starts out resenting his strange new husband, his feelings warm and grow. After all, it is Keith, how could they not?
Relationships: Keith/Shiro (Voltron)
Comments: 24
Kudos: 176





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [FudgingPastry](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FudgingPastry/gifts).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A special thanks to [Try_ToFocus](https://twitter.com/Try_ToFocus) for the graphic!! <3

  
  


Some called them aliens, some called them fairies. No one knew where they came from, or where they went, when the damage was done. Humanity only knew that they were ruthless, that they were violent, and they were so very, very beautiful. Shiro was part of the group that fought back against them, the golden boy, sure, but he’d only ever seen them at a distance, on shaky surveillance cams that turned to static before they left the scene. It was hard to fight back against an opponent that seemed to materialize as though through magic and then disappear without a single trace. Humanities losses were enormous, though only few _people_ died, and of those, most were higher ups, the brass, those calling the shots. Massive damage to human buildings, thwarted supply trains, ruined infrastructure, and fewer casualties than any war Shiro had ever seen.

They were toying with humanity, whatever they were. Of that, Shiro was certain. They could’ve won this war on day one. 

But what else was there for Shiro to do, but fight?

\--

Shiro woke with a decidedly fuzzy head. It was beyond a normal disinclination to wake up in the morning, he’d beaten that habit out of himself (well, perhaps he’d not been the one to do the beating) when he was a kid. He was good about waking up and quickly turning sharp and alert. It wasn’t a hangover, either; nothing hurt.

There were hands on him. Part of his brain, the part he recognized as himself, was certain he should panic about that. But the sluggish, drowsy part could only blink blearily, lifting his head slowly while tittering voices sloughed slowly through his ears, distorted and distant. He was sitting, not laying down, though the cushion under him was soft as a mattress. The people surrounding him were the dazzling, beautiful strangers that had tormented humanity deeply, devastatingly, but only for a short, short month. He couldn’t discern gender. If these creatures even… had genders. 

He was muzzled. Not uncomfortably, the muzzle didn’t dig into the scar across the bridge of his nose, though it rested perfectly against it, the straps didn’t snag on his hair, and the weight in his mouth that kept his tongue pressed down didn’t stretch his jaw. It did fill his nostrils with a delightful scent, though, one that beckoned him back to easy slumber, floral and sweet.

“...waking up…” he picked out of the excited voices around him, melodious and music-toned. They were such beautiful people, shame that they wrought such total devastation. 

The hands in his hair felt like they were braiding it. Shiro, spitefully, impulsively, almost wished he’d taken his grandfather’s angered nagging and cut it short , if only so the strangers couldn’t fuss with it as they were doing now. He tried to lift a hand to bat theirs away, but his wrists were bound together, again painlessly, and chained to the muzzle. 

“Here, remove the somnos,” an elderly-sounding voice ordered, though it bore no roughness, no strain from the age. Hands maneuvered the muzzle, the _chock_ of an insert being removed familiar to Shiro’s ears. The effect was almost instantaneous, and the fog cleared quickly, alertness returning to him. 

“He doesn’t seem like he’s panicking to me,” mentioned one voice, high and young, and Shiro turned to glare at her. Them. It. Whatever. 

Assorted agreements and pleased words were exchanged over his head, and he used his newfound clarity to try and orient himself. He seemed to be in some sort of… he’d almost call it a bedroom, but there was no bed. Dressing chamber? There was a bath, damp from use but drained, and Shiro’s skin crawled to think that it had been used while he was unconscious. Not that he wasn’t still actively, currently naked, but still. He did feel clean, and heavy scents were thick in the air, pleasant and floral once again, noticeable now that his muzzle was emptied. He also felt the sticky-smooth sensation of lotion all over his body. Set apart from the bath, there was a finely-made vanity, laden with bottles and trinkets, some of the drawers half-open revealing more. An armoire stood proudly, carved intricately, a little ways away from it, the doors yet closed. 

There were still hands in his hair. What wasn’t being handled was already plaited, drooping over his shoulders in tiny, intricate designs, pinned and secured in bright silver. Hands were also on his feet, buffing his (short, now) toenails, and Shiro noticed someone had trimmed his pubic hair. He willed his heart and breathing to stay even, stay steady. 

The hands in his hair finished, and then smoothly pushed Shiro forward, bent over himself as far as he could go without it hurting. “Hold him steady,” the elderly voice said, and many, many hands gripped at Shiro’s arms and shoulders and head, keeping him like this. His heart sped up again, legs shaking as he experimentally pushed against the floor. No dice. He wiggled, then gave an earnest yank, but he didn’t move at all. Deliberately, counting the seconds, Shiro took slow, unsteady breaths.

“It won’t hurt,” promised a voice, smooth as maple syrup and cinnamon sugar. “And it won’t take long.”

_What won’t?_ Shiro wanted to ask, and an intense jolt of _something_ erupted across his back. Almost like ice, but not quite cold, bright, but in a way touched, not seen. It wasn’t painful or pleasant, just _immense,_ radiating from the spine between his shoulders, indescribable, overwhelming, and then just as suddenly as it had started, it was over. Shiro gasped, panting, as the hands on him released, some petting his hair and face, others slipping away without a word.

“There now, there there,” a kind, melodious voice hushed him, and Shiro’s frail, human brain tried to process whatever he’d just experienced. “M’lord’s sigil looks fine on you, you should know,” said another, light as bell chimes, playful. 

Hands on his face and hair turned to the muzzle, unbuckling the straps and gently pulling it from his mouth, and then his wrists were freed as well, Shiro looked around him suspiciously, at the strangers with their gossamer wings, their freckle-like scales, their gemstone eyes and spider silk hair. He eyed the painted claws and saccharine smiles and beautiful, draping clothing. He stood, tense, suspicious, as clothing was brought out of the armoire, white and off-white and cream, the darkest hue being a shimmery, water-foam blue.

At least the first article was underwear, to which Shiro offered no struggle at all, simply put on. 

“...such an ugly thing, though.”

“Prosthetics of value take time; his will have to do for now.”

“Can’t we find an old unused one in a cabinet somewhere?”

“Leave it be, child.”

The conversation in the room wasn’t what Shiro would call comfortable, but at least he did still have both his arms. One was metal, sure, but it was there. Buffed and polished to a shine.

They also largely weren’t paying attention to Shiro, for a moment, the rest of the room caught up in which layer should be added to Shiro next, and in what shade of off-white. This very well might be his only chance to run. He moved, slow and cautious at first, to see if anyone’s eyes snapped to him, if anyone paid mind, but they all kept on with what they were doing. He had, somehow, fooled them with his complacency.

He moved to slip quietly, swiftly out of the room, but the moment he entered the door frame he was stopped short. It wasn’t like running into a wall, not at all. More like someone had grabbed him by the back of a shirt, distributing the force all throughout his torso. But instead of a shirt, it was the mark on his back.

Whatever they’d done to him, it suddenly made sense why they hadn’t unbound him until afterwards.

The room was quiet, now, conversations halted, and he didn’t doubt that all of their outlandish, beautiful eyes were on him. He half wanted to hang there, in the threshold, and wait for them to grab him again with their perfumed hands and forcibly drag him back into whatever they were doing to him. But none of them stepped forward, and he couldn’t just stand there indefinitely. His pride, bruised though it was, wouldn’t allow it. He turned, seeing that yes, yes indeed, all eyes were in fact on him, and swallowed miserably. The elder-voiced one, hair silvery and pinned in intricate curls with deep crimson robes that flowed groundward, extended one smooth, flawless hand and long claws to Shiro, who sighed and stepped forward.

“Now there we go,” the elder crooned at him, two more of them coming at him with a weightless shift. Shiro silently endured them dressing him in layer after layer of soft, impossibly thin cloth, all of it beautiful and sweet smelling and in a happier situation, he would love to rub his hand over the texture. As it was, he was mostly just scared, holding still and quiet because he couldn’t think of what else to do except cry, and he didn’t want to cry in front of them.

“What’s going to happen to me?” he asked quietly, eyes staring vacantly at the vanity mirror.

A brief surge of tittering, and then the elder’s voice. “You’re going to be the bridegroom to our prince. Right now he is in ritual combat with your planetary leaders, and when they are all defeated, he will wed one of your kind to symbolize the new union of our peoples, as has been our tradition for many hundred planets we have conquered.”

Gentle hands pet lightly at Shiro, perhaps reassuring, perhaps sinister, he couldn’t discern.

“You are the human that was chosen, for your rank, just below those who now fight, and for your beauty.” Hands without wrinkle or blemish cupped his chin and eyes met his in the mirror. “Beautiful indeed.”

Shiro was shaking.

Another layer was added, this one more like a cloak with billowing sleeves than anything. It had a hood that was left down for the time, and a long train. He was seated again, the cushion still absurdly plush, and now the strangers brought jewelry from the vanity. His fingers, even the metal ones, were bedecked in rings, his wrists and ankles became laden with thin chains of bright and precious stones. His ears, pierced back when he was in college and finally out from under the grandparents who breathed down his neck, were decorated in the holes present, as well as many clips and chains, glinting silver and surprisingly light. Only his neck went undecorated from rare stones, though none of them diamonds, which seemed a better fit for the pale clothing he wore. They were all bright and rich with color.

Shiro let his eyes go to the side, not wanting to look at the strangers around him, with their pretty bodies and voices, and then had to bite down bile. He saw the sigil they must have been talking about, white-hot metal at the end of a long stick. He’d been branded. Like cattle, like a slave. He went back to staring at the vanity, trembling under their hands. They lifted the hood, and it cascaded down to just above his eyes, almost like a veil. With his black hair now covered, his whole person was pale, his reflection ghostly, the bright gems all the brighter from the contrast.

They were not cruel when they led him forward. No rough hands or words. There was a second door, invisible until it opened, across the room from the first, and it slid silently beneath the clawed hands of a young, spritely looking boy(?). When Shiro had to stop outside the threshold and lean against the wall, breathing to the count of ten, they waited patiently for him, one of them arranging a few plaits of hair to be visible over front of his shoulders, dark slashes of black from beneath the hood, and none made any mention of the pause. They only passed one intersection, and so, so much of him wanted to bolt. Punch the nearest stranger out of his way and take off running, but he didn’t, and once he was well past the hallway a few of them crooned and remarked on what excellent control he had. He felt a little more vindicated in his decision not to; the way they spoke about it, it had obviously been a test. He tried not to wonder what he would have found at the end of that hall.

The ceremony was apparently going to happen in the single most beautiful room Shiro had ever seen. There were more flowers in that single room than Shiro thought could grow in all the world, hanging from the ceiling in softly glowing chandeliers, climbing in vines up every chair and bench, blossoming along pillars, sprouting in clustered bouquets along the floor, everywhere Shiro looked his eyes were accosted by endless, limitless flowers. The room sloped upwards, like an auditorium, but instead of desks there were just flowers and tables and seats and more flowers. Butterflies of every color, sheen, and size flitted from here to there, unbothered by the beautiful strangers they would occasionally land on, drinking nectar from the blossoms. And people, so many strangers in the flowering chairs, staring at him, pleasant voices carrying along the air when all he felt was small and very, very frightened.

The prince entered from a door opposite the one Shiro and his entourage came through, flanked on either side by two guards, though they were all so beautiful also. Finely groomed and bedecked in thick, black cloth, Shiro wondered if perhaps this prince was trying to symbolize some kind of antithesis to Shiro’s own unwilling attire. His gemstones were all diamonds and his accents were all red except a single, silver pendant he wore around his neck. He was one of the strangers with scales for freckles, his purple, and he had bright indigo eyes. He had pale purple wings with muted red markings, folded down behind him like a shimmering cape of his own, and a tail, which Shiro was distantly fascinated by.

The prince approached boldly, with the least grace of all the strangers Shiro had seen, met Shiro in the middle of the low stage, and he extended his hand.

“Give me your name,” he said, palm upturned, voice startlingly, jarringly human, rough when all other voices were smooth and musical.

“Takashi Shirogane,” Shiro answered in his surprise at the prince’s tone, remembering too late that many suspected these people were fey, and if so then he’d just done far more to damn himself to this than the brand on his back ever could. Too late, too late now. Shiro gripped the prince’s hand and shook it once.

“Give me yours?” he asked, and the prince smiled. Just a bit, just a twitch of his lips, before his professional, blank look slid back into place.

“Call me Keith.”

Keith led Shiro to an ornate table with two empty chairs, the cushion still impossibly soft underneath him when he sat. On the table, there was a bowl, two syringes, a pitcher, and the most intricately detailed carving of a snake Shiro had ever seen. He didn’t like this, but he saw no escape. As much as he might have wanted to, screaming and fighting and causing a ruckus likely wouldn’t change the outcome, _or_ make him feel better, and he did want to maintain some pride. Though perhaps that was his own fear justifying itself, concocting reasons for why he was so docile and quiet in the face of that which he had always tried to fight.

At the end, Shiro only wanted to survive this, and he knew that sometimes survival came at the price of complacency. 

“Victorious people,” Keith said, the tenor of his voice grounding amidst all the supernatural flawlessness around them, “we are conquerors, but we are not cruel. So in our victory, we must care for that which we have conquered, as a man might care for his bridegroom.” Keith turned to Shiro, and seemed to take a moment. “Thus, I marry this man, so as to bind our peoples in unity.”

A swell of noise lifted off the gathered crowd, Shiro’s ribcage feeling like it was threatening to burst under his pulse. Keith reached across the table and took Shiro’s wrist, the flesh one, and extended Shiro’s arm. With one taloned hand, he braced Shiro at the elbow, and with the other, he parted the folds of the sheer cloth over his elbow’s inside, a series of holes Shiro hadn’t noticed when he’d been dressed in layer after layer of draping, cascading gossamer. When Shiro’s skin was revealed, the barest square available to the crowd of strangers’ eyes, Keith lifted one syringe. Shiro wasn’t sure if he appreciated the modesty, or hysterically thought it was just so silly that he didn’t simply roll up the sleeve. 

The prick of the syringe was grounding. Aliens or fairies or whatever they were, a needle in his vein was still just a needle, same as every other time he’d been poked for bloodwork over the course of his life. The fey prince didn’t even take that much, and covered Shiro’s skin again when the blood was taken. Then the prince lifted his own arm, and pulled back a single layer of thick black cloth to reveal his own inner elbow, and pricked himself with the second syringe, looking very much like he was doing a bit of tedious paperwork all the while. Shiro watched him empty both syringes into the bowl, and then pour the contents of the pitcher in after. Although the fluid was clear, it did not dilute the blood, only increased the volume of red mixture, and Shiro uncomfortably placed his metallic hand over the crook of his elbow, holding the small wound. 

“Our bloods we mix,” Keith announced, reaching up to his neck to remove the silver pendant. It was a perfect circle, filled through, an unblemished disk that reflected the light around them in a flawless sheen. Keith lowered the disk into the blood, and then the thin chain after it. He reached in with his other hand, and when he pulled them back up, he cradled a chain in each palm, two distinct pendants hanging at the end of each chain. One was beautiful and whorling, circles and spirals and fleurs patterning the silver, while the other was more geometric, straight lines intersecting mathematical circles and criss-crossing diamonds. The whorling one, Keith placed around his own neck, and the geometric one, he leaned forward, and placed around Shiro’s. He had to lower the hood from Shiro’s head to do so, the multitude of tiny, intricate plaits and the silver that pinned them gently bumping up against each other, though they did not ring out like metal striking metal. Strange, Shiro thought, as Keith lifted his hair over the thin chain around his neck, and replaced the hood over his head. Strange indeed.

“And each other’s names we wear. Our fates, like our blood, are intertwined, indistinguishable from each other’s, and this wedding now concludes. Celebrate.”

Polite cheering, high and sweet and beautiful, erupted loudly. Not for any genuine levity Shiro could detect, but simply from the sheer volume of people that were gathered. Keith picked up the snake and Shiro felt his heartbeat pick up again. He could’ve swore the thing moved.

“This is Sentry, you can call him by a different name if you want; he will protect you from any hand that would hurt you, except mine.” Keith took Shiro’s wrist again and pulled his hand out from beneath the layers of cloth, meeting more resistance this time. _”Any,_ hand.” The snake did move then, slipping into Shiro’s palm like a shadow, the mark of it a tattoo that slithered beneath Shiro’s skin.

The trembling fear was back. “Let’s go,” Keith said, pulling him to his feet. Shiro didn’t want to go, did not want to follow the man who was technically now his husband, he guessed. But he wanted to stay with the beautiful crowd of syrup-voiced strangers less, so he went.

The complex they were in was larger, far larger, than anything Shiro had been in before. It could’ve been the boss-level castle of an old video game, endlessly massive with halls that stretched far beyond what they could possibly need to, vaulted ceilings, an actual honest to god stream that flowed through part of it, and all of it, all of it, beautiful. Shiro had seen more mosaic tiles in a single, otherwise-nondescript hallway there than he’d seen all his life on Earth. They rode on what Shiro could only call a flying carpet—also painstakingly, intricately woven—in order to reach their destination. 

For all the time he’d had to devise intelligent questions, he still didn’t have any. He hoped he was in shock; at least that way he’d have something to blame.

“Where are we?” Shiro finally asked, when a door closed behind him and he looked around the rooms, three of them, an open floor plan that was interconnected. They were separated by two sets of stairs leading to room-sized diases, and a wall between those two, the room he and Keith entered into sitting lower than the others. One of the diases wasn’t actually a room, it was a massive, sparkling pool, with floating bowls containing soaps and bottles and hand towels. The other dias boasted a large bed most predominantly, and Shiro looked away without further scrutiny. The middle area was a sitting room, Shiro guessed, with plush loveseats and a long couch and a low table with a single burning stick of incense and strange rocks on it. 

“Honeymoon suite,” Keith answered plainly, meticulously stripping off the rings, bracelets, anklets, and earrings he was laden with. He discarded them on one of the small tables with vases near the doorway, vases holding more flowers than should really be physically possible. 

“On your home planet?” Shiro asked, plucking off a few rings himself, though he had nowhere to put them just yet, “Some kind of supermassive spaceship?”

Keith was silent, seeming to ponder that question, and answered, “It’s the planet I was born on.”

“That’s cryptic,” Shiro said, pushing lightly. He didn’t know what his boundaries were, as the conquered spouse to an alien prince.

“I guess you might call it my homeplanet; it was the birthplace of my species.” Keith shed the high-necked jacket next, and Shiro prudishly gripped at his own top layer, gathering it tighter around himself. “I don’t live here anymore, and I don’t consider it my home.”

“What do you consider your home?” Shiro asked, knowing that wasn’t the right question to be asking in this situation but blank on anything better.

“You’ll see soon enough.”

“Will it be Earth, now that you’ve conquered it?”

“I’m not overly invested in the war effort.”

“Then why am I here, married to you?”

“Father cannot take any more wives, and my elder siblings are all married. And some of my younger siblings.” Keith shrugged, removing his boots. He then crossed the space, Shiro’s eyes sharp on him and feet shifting uncomfortably away, and tossed himself onto the decadently plush loveseat. 

“Your younger siblings?” Shiro asked, curious why Keith would be an anomaly, and what that meant for him. Cautiously, he sidled closer to the loveseat, but didn’t join Keith. He sat on the couch, in the middle of it, perched on the edge so he could stand swiftly if the need arose.

“Normally, habitable planets are smaller, and have a single ruling party. The last couple of planets have been ruled by kings, and after they were defeated in ritual combat, my siblings took their queens as wives, taking the planetary thrones rightfully, by way of marriage. Your planet is too big for that, so our marriage is more symbolic. I didn’t marry any of the queens because they’re women, and I’m allowed to have a say in that, at least.”

“At least? You’re not interested in marrying me?” Shiro asked, a spark of hope flickering to life in his chest, that was just as quickly doused. Keith looked at him—never meeting his eyes, he noticed—with a lazy sort of hunger.

“Oh, I’m interested enough.”

Shiro slid down the couch, a deliberate, pointed motion, hands trembling, though his face was hard. Keith seemed unbothered, tail flicking like a lazy cat’s, shimmering wings fluttering ever so slightly behind him. 

“You…” Shiro blinked hard. He needed to orient himself, keep it together. “You killed planetary leaders, in ritual combat.”

“I did.”

“Was it broadcasted?” Shiro asked, knowing the answer.

“And recorded.”

“May I see it?”

“Do you want to?” Keith asked, and there was a challenge to his idle words.

Shiro glared miserably at him. 

“No,” he answered honestly, “but may I see it anyway?”

Keith waved his hand towards the low table and murmured something, low and quiet, and stones that Shiro had thought merely decorative clattered into a line, runes glowing, and a holographic screen, for lack of a better term, hovered above them.

General Sanda was first. Furious, practiced, military-grade, and Keith flitting gracefully, lethally around her before killing her without any show of effort. The American president next, then came General Adam, who had risen through the ranks of the Garrison to fill the empty shoes of dead members and whose death turned Shiro’s stomach painfully, and then fourth, Sam Holt.

Shiro lost time, crossing from the couch to the low table, metal hand shoved through the stones, scattering them, shattering the image. He was just suddenly there, breathing hard, body shaking.

Sam had been the first adult in Shiro’s life to see past his straight A’s and teenage eyeliner. The first man to genuinely ask after how Shiro was doing, and make sure he was taken care of, not just taking care of himself. Sam had been the one to fight on Shiro’s behalf, the first, the only, the one person who’d seen his dreams as achievable, while still acknowledging his physical limitations. Sam Holt had been the only father Shiro had ever been able to claim.

“He surrendered,” Keith said softly, voice low and grounding, his hand on the spine between Shiro’s shoulders. Comfort radiated from the touch, smoothing him over, bringing him down from his unblinking tremors. 

Shiro looked at Keith shakily, mouth open but not forming words, not asking the question he needed to ask.

“He’s alive,” Keith said, still not ever meeting Shiro’s eyes, but his face earnest and heartfelt anyway. “He agreed to work alongside us, and advise us. His defeat was a surrender.”

Shiro took one long breath, then another. This man was the one on the screen, the one who’d killed Shiro’s boss, president, and ex. This was the man who so carelessly, deftly wielded the blade that ended human lives, that had been on the screen with Sam moments ago. It felt almost unfair, that Shiro’s brain was accepting comfort from him, but what say did he really have in that? He looked from Keith down to his hand, to the stones, and pulled back.

“Show me,” he said hoarsely. _Prove it._

Keith waved his hand and the stones bounced back into place, and Shiro stepped back once, twice, only back far enough to see.

Sam backed away from Keith on the screen, hands lifted nervously, and he tripped over his own feet. Keith’s face was irate, but in a bland, blank sort of way, not an angry one. He pointed the tip of his blade at Sam, nowhere even close to Sam’s skin, and said, “Surrender.”

Shiro watched with immense relief as Sam did. 

Surrendering was a more involved process than dying. Sam’s blood was taken in a syringe, and then used to write a contract which Sam then had to sign, also in his own blood. The process was lengthy enough Shiro had managed to calm his racing heart by the end of it. He sank down onto the couch heavily.

“May… I see him?” Shiro asked, wanting to know, with his eyes and ears and hands, that Sam really was alive.

“Perhaps,” Keith said. 

_”Please.”_

“I don’t know the future, and I don’t know what my father will have to say on the matter,” Keith said, once again touching Shiro between his shoulders in a strangely comforting manner. “But I will not be the one who denies you, Takashi.”

“Shiro.”

“Shiro,” Keith echoed, “As you will.” When he pulled his hand away, Shiro found that he missed it.

“How many others did you kill?”

“Many.”

‘And how many surrendered?”

“More.”

“May I… is there a way to see what happened to who, without making it drawn out?” Shiro asked, figuring they were magic, that was probably doable.

Keith murmured something again and the screen showed a compilation of still images, some showing corpses with Keith standing over them, some showing signatures of blood and the humans that signed them. People Shiro knew, people he only recognized in passing, the entirety of Earth’s leadership, dead or bound.

And he, the golden boy, in limbo between leader and soldier, had been chosen to be the bridegroom. Ha. It fit, that he was not enough of a leader to die like one, and not enough of a normal person to be subjugated along with the rest. He was _special._

“Shiro,” Keith said, when Shiro had meticulously looked over every person, every image. He turned to him, the rattle-click of the beads and casings in his plaits sounding out quietly. “Many conquered spouses choose to have their first nights in their new lives alone. I can leave until morning, if you want me to.”

Rather than answer, Shiro asked, “Does your species even sleep?”

“We do, although I’m led to believe we need it less and enjoy it more than most.”

Shiro turned unhappy eyes back to the screen, before it wisped away like blue smoke.

“I,” he started, then took a deep breath. “Whatever is going to happen to me, I would like to get it over with.”

“You would like?”

“Prefer.” Shiro continued staring at the wall behind the table when Keith’s weight sank the cushion next to him. “This is our wedding night, after all,” Shiro added bitterly.

“You... want to fuck?”

Shiro closed his eyes. “Anything you’re going to do to me,” he said, voice carefully even, “do it.”

Keith’s skin was strange and soft against Shiro’s cheek, tapered talons careful not to so much as scrape him. “Are you certain, Shiro? Once we start, I will not stop.”

Shiro swallowed, and nodded. He didn’t resist when Keith turned his head to him, and kissed back when Keith brought their lips together. It wasn’t unpleasant; Keith was a good kisser, and started chaste and soft. Shiro almost wished he would make it hurt, be rough and demanding with him, but only almost. As it was, kissing Keith was… nice. Clawed hands gently moved Shiro’s hood down, and cupped the back of his head, shifting the plaits, and Keith gently caressed Shiro’s jaw as he nudged the kiss deeper. 

Shiro lost time, kissing Keith, and only realized maybe he shouldn’t enjoy the strangely textured tongue in his mouth after Keith had pulled back, indigo eyes sharp as they darted this way and that over Shiro’s face.

“Are you _certain,_ Shiro?”

“Keith,” Shiro said, not sure if he sounded tired to his own ears, or exasperated.

“I want to hear you say it.”

“I’m certain,” Shiro said, carefully even and closing his eyes, “Fuck me.”

Keith took Shiro by the hand, much like he had at the ceremony, and tugged Shiro gently to his feet. Shiro followed up the steps of the dias, and glanced around the space more thoroughly while Keith pulled a large, shimmering curtain over the length of the opening.

There was a mirror in the bedroom, ornate and silver and beautiful, and Shiro’s reflection was almost jarring for its humanity. A human face and human hands emerged from the flowing, cascading cloth that folded and draped across his form, white as a wedding gown. Human hair was bound up and beaded and locked inside silver metalwork, though now part of it was white. Shiro lifted his hand, staring at that shock of white, brows drawn together. It hadn’t been that way in the dressing room. No one had dyed it. Strands of it had been braided into surrounding plaits, whispers flowing in with the black.

Keith saw Shiro brush at the main braid that no longer matched the rest, and placed his hand between Shiro’s shoulders. 

“Sometimes magic will do that, when it passes through bodies that don’t normally hold it,” Keith explained, and Shiro felt himself calm from rising bile he’d not yet even noticed. “It looks good on you.”

Shiro laughed, bitter. “So you _can_ lie,” he remarked.

Keith recoiled from him as though Shiro had struck him, fangs bared and tail lashing, his wings snapping open to their full, massive length and width, two people in either direction. “I am _not_ lying!” Keith hissed, growled, spat.

Huh. Aside from initial surprise at the sharp movement, Shiro was only blanching at this, and raised his open palms slowly. “Humanity has a rumor that your kind can’t tell lies,” Shiro said calmly, his experience talking down angry cadets overriding his ongoing panic at being bridenapped for a fey prince, “I was more referencing that, than accusing you of anything.” Which… was fudging the truth, but Shiro wasn’t going to worry about the details too closely.

Slowly, Keith’s wings folded down, exterior flaps telescoping underneath the inner, and the wings resumed their cape-like appearance at Keith’s back and ankles. His eyes, which had glowed furious yellow, regained their indigo hue. Shiro just as slowly lowered his hands.

“I didn’t realize that would upset you that badly,” Shiro commented, and that was true. He slipped the rest of the rings off his fingers and placed them next to the mirror, trying to force the situation calm, casual, through his own demeanor.

“If you were one of my people, and not an outsider, I would be expected to challenge you to a deathmatch to preserve my honor in the face of such an implication.”

Shiro didn’t want to ask what would happen to him if _he_ lied. “That seems a little intense,” he remarked instead, going for the earrings next, a cold sweat down his back.

“Different cultures have different values,” Keith said evenly, like it was something read from memory, straightening from his aggressive crouch in increments, “In ours, the worst crime is to lie.”

“The worst crime,” Shiro said flatly, pulling off anklets, then bracelets.

“There are none that outrank it.” Keith tossed his head and flicked his tail, loosening the tension in them, then went to Shiro and undid the pin of the cloak, placing the first of Shiro’s many layers to the side. The phrase “unwrapping your new toy” came unbidden to Shiro’s mind, but he bit it down. Keith was helping Shiro undress, because they were alien-married, and they were going to have alien sex, and Keith was doing a pretty decent job of not making it completely and entirely suck for Shiro so far. Fake it till you make it, play pretend at lovers until they were, that sort of shit. Keith, despite the angry flash, _did_ seem determined that this should be less a matter of getting the worst out of the way, and instead be something pleasant for them both.

Shiro came out of his own head to the feel of Keith’s lips on his neck, sharp teeth brushing painlessly against his skin. He shivered. He raised his own hands to Keith’s doublet and undid the fastens there, which got him a pleased noise from Keith. 

Shiro was a kidnapped, terrified, still largely shocked individual, but he was still only human, and he was being undressed by a beautiful man who smelled very nice and touched Shiro in ways that sent little shivers of electric pleasure up his spine. It was only natural for him to get hard, he assured himself, as each layer revealed more of his cock’s impression against the cloth, and each fall of fabric against the floor made his cock a little more impressive. 

Shiro went to lift the pendant from around his neck while Keith took off the sole remaining piece of his clothing—the white underwear—and was startled when the pendant stopped, held by some invisible force, about halfway up his face. Keith’s match hung against his bare chest, stripped down to his underwear as well, and he paused, indigo eyes on Shiro’s hands, perplexed.

“It isn’t coming off,” Shiro said, an explanation and a question, both. 

“It’s my name,” Keith said, “Of course it isn’t.”

Three different questions there, the first of which, “Your name?”

“You have written language, you know what a name looks like when it is in symbols instead of sounds.”

Shiro released the chain and held the silver circle in his palm, brushing a thumb over the lines and diamonds. “This says ‘Keith?’” he asked softly, wondering which part made which sound.

“It says my true name,” Keith said.

“Which you’ve declined to give me.”

“For a time. For all I don’t think you could personally do much with it, names have power, and loose lips combined with fresh spite don’t make a combination in my favor.”

Shiro supposed that was fair.

“That’s my name, then?”

“Takashi Shirogane,” Keith said, lifting his own pendant to admire it, smiling at the silver. The beautiful whorls and fleurs didn’t seem fitting, for a man like Shiro, for a name like Takashi, but Shiro wasn’t going to argue with alien fairy magic and their writing system.

“Can you remove yours?”

“Of course not,” Keith said, jerking it up, only for it to meet the same invisible force Shiro’s had. “We’re married.”

At least that was even. Keith hooked a finger through Shiro’s chain and pulled on it, tugging Shiro in for a kiss. His hands went to Shiro’s hips, and he was reminded of the erection there, and when they pulled apart from the kiss, they were both fully naked, save the silver names hung from their necks.

Keith stared openly, frankly, at Shiro’s dick, so he didn’t feel bad about staring just as openly at Keith’s. It was a purple tentacle, an actual fucking tentacle, but instead of a tapered end, the hole was puckered. And slimy.

“I don’t think that’s going to fit,” Shiro said plainly.

“It’s more pliant than it looks.”

Keith was shorter than Shiro, but stronger, which he made plain in physically lifting Shiro and placing him on the oversized, stupidly plush bed. Shiro had gotten to pet a friend’s chinchilla a few times, and the softness of the top of the duvet was fairly comparable in texture. 

“Wait,” Shiro said, as Keith’s purple fucking tentacle dick slid against the cleft of his ass.

“I told you—”

“Stretch me out first,” Shiro cut him off, “Human asses don’t expand with arousal, we need prep work.”

Keith covered Shiro’s mouth with his hand, the texture still strange to Shiro, and he repeated, “I told you, it’s pliable. The pressure of your body will make it smaller.” Softening, Keith moved his hand to brush at the hair near Shiro’s temple, beads and metal weaving _tck_ ing lightly against each other. “I’ll start out slow.”

And if nothing else, at least Shiro knew Keith wasn’t a liar.

Still, Shiro gasped softly, more just a heaving of his chest than any real sound, when Keith’s blunt cock pushed past the rim of his ass. Fortunately, alien fairy dicks were wet enough to negate the need for lube. Unfortunately, while it might not have been as big as it looked, it was still big. And that was just the rounded tip. 

“Go slow,” Shiro breathed, closing his eyes and focusing on relaxing, on taking its girth.

“I will,” Keith promised again, settling his weight on top of Shiro and sliding his arms around him. And, mercifully, Keith did go very slow, the stretch immense, but fully tolerable. Shiro’s cock was upright and at attention the whole time Keith pushed millimeter after aching millimeter into Shiro, their lips interlocked for most of it, except when Keith pulled away to kiss at Shiro’s neck or cheek or jaw and Shiro gasped at the chance to breathe. It was so much, overwhelming like most of the day had been, but very, very good. So good, so perfectly fucking good, with Keith in his ass and against his skin, Shiro was tempted to feel bad about how amazing it felt, guilty to be enjoying this, but the warmth of Keith’s hands against his spine and the perfect way he stretched him out sweet and sensual kept the shame at bay. 

“That’s it,” Keith murmured in Shiro’s ear, teeth scraping bloodlessly against his jaw.

“That’s..?” he asked hazily, out of focus.

“You took the whole thing,” Keith praised, and warm pride radiated along Shiro’s spine, down his cock. Keith propped himself up on his palms for a short while, and reached out to touch the distinct bump Shiro’s lower belly was now sporting, but Shiro did not let go. “How do you feel?”

“Good,” Shiro gasped, a little dizzy, his arousal just short of painful. His fingers dug into Keith’s shoulders more urgently, needy and hot. “Stretched out to my limit, but so good, hot, blurry, I, I want you to move,” Shiro gasped out, Keith’s wings fluttering just a little overtop them. They stayed down, but made a pleasant sound.

Keith rolled his hips in, slow and deep, and the tentacle twisted inside Shiro. Shiro gasped, arching under him, fingerpads gone white with his grip and metal touch so tight it would’ve been painful for a human. Maybe it was painful for a stranger, too, maybe Keith was just pleased by it. All the same, Keith chuckled, and lifted his pointed thumb to Shiro’s parted lips. Shiro opened his jaw further, letting Keith’s finger in, letting him press down on his tongue, letting his own drool slip out of the corner of his mouth.

“You are beautiful,” Keith murmured before releasing Shiro’s mouth and settling himself back in close, arms around Shiro, and Shiro’s cock twitched while his face flushed somehow hotter. 

“Like this?” Keith asked around his grin, sounding playful, playful in a way Shiro hadn’t heard from him until that moment. The undulations inside of him made him writhe ever so sweetly.

“Yes,” Shiro gasped, head thrown back and cock weeping between them. “Yes, Keith, please!”

Keith moved faster, and faster still as they went on. Even so, he never took a particularly brutal pace, though Shiro wondered if his kind would even need too, with prehensile cocks that could twist and squirm and press with devastating accuracy against Shiro’s prostate, goddamn and holy fuck. And all the while, a decadent, insatiable heat that crawled along his spine. 

“I,” Shiro gasped through his haze, between heavy kisses, “I can’t be far,” he warned. The tiny, miniscule part of his brain that was still online found it odd that he hadn’t come yet. He’d never felt this kind of pleasure before in his life, not when he had a boyfriend and certainly not when he was alone with himself. But even so, his orgasm hadn’t come.

“Not yet,” Keith murmured through his own labored breathing, and a streak of _something_ radiated down his spine, same as the pleasure had since Keith had taken Shiro in his arms.

Shiro gasped, eyes gone wide. “The brand.”

“To keep what is mine,” Keith purred against Shiro’s throat, “to give pleasure where I see fit.” Shiro arched, the mark lighting up intense, white hot, and so very, very fucking good. He mistook it for an orgasm, initially, but when the intensity faded his cock was still hard, still leaking precum, still frustratingly close. “And to retain pleasure until I see it so,” Keith finished smugly. 

“Please,” Shiro breathed, releasing Keith’s shoulders in favor of clinging to him, threading his metal fingers into Keith’s gorgeous hair and wrapping his flesh arm around his back. “Please, Keith.” 

“Tell me you want me to breed you,” Keith ordered against Shiro’s skin, “Beg me to breed you,” he amended.

Shiro momentarily blanched at the unexpected kink, but was so far past horny that in that moment he would’ve been down for any esoteric fetish Keith could’ve possibly thrown at him.

“Breed me, Keith, please,” Shiro begged, “I want it, I, I want.” This was new territory, and his muddled brain wasn’t exactly the head he was particularly capable of thinking with. What would sound hot? “Fill me, I want you to fill me,” Shiro tried. “Fill me with your—young?” That felt weird. “Stuff me full, Keith,” that sounded better, “Breed me, breed me, please!”

“Beautiful,” Keith gasped, and Shiro’s orgasm took away his sight and hearing for a long, bright moment of sheer bliss. His senses came back slowly, body shivering and twitching delightedly, and above him, clinging to him, mouth pressed to his throat, Keith was shuddering, hips jerking in the tiniest motions and tentacle wriggling deep inside Shiro. Shiro pet Keith’s hair and turned his head as much as he could, pressing a soft kiss to whatever piece of Keith’s head was closest to his lips. His beautiful hair spilled through the windows of Shiro’s fingers and he gave Keith’s tresses a warm squeeze. Keith made a high, aborted noise, almost like a whimper, body trembling and taut.

“You’re wonderful,” Shiro murmured, voice thick and rough with the truly mindblowing orgasm he was still coming down from, and Keith’s wings snapped open, full-length, and he lurched forward, claws pricking but not painful as he clutched Shiro somehow tighter and fluid spilled into Shiro’s ass. Keith’s mouth moved away from Shiro’s throat only to be replaced by his eyes and forehead, pressed hard against Shiro’s skin. Shiro hugged him back, sighing contentedly as Keith came. 

And then something very, very wrong happened.

Shiro didn’t understand it at first, just that his body sent off alarm signals at whatever had just happened in his ass, and he moved sluggishly, body exhausted and disoriented. “Keith?” he asked, but Keith didn’t respond beyond a brief twitch of his outspread wings. And then it happened again, the sensation of stretching Shiro past what Keith’s cock already did, of something hard and round going _into_ him, deep in.

“Keith!” he repeated more urgently, pushing at his shoulders and legs kicking against the mattress without coordination, heartrate spiking and hazy afterglow gone cold. 

“I told you,” Keith said, not letting Shiro go in the least, and he was so much stronger than Shiro was, “We started; I will not stop.”

“Keith, please!” Shiro cried, and it happened a third time. Shiro struggled, blindly, feebly, his squirming and clawing and thrashing meaningless to Keith, who simply held fast. It did not matter how Shiro twisted, how he clawed at Keith’s back or the sheets or how his shaking legs tried to kick. Keith just laid egg after egg inside Shiro’s body, not moving outside of his breathing and the occasional twitch of his wings. Shiro started crying around the seventh egg, which was also when he stopped counting. His stomach bulged in earnest, and he couldn’t understand why it didn’t hurt more, though it did most certainly hurt. When Keith’s wings finally telescoped down, fluttered thrice, and folded against his back, Shiro was limp on the bed. Keith pet Shiro’s tear streaked face with a traitorous softness, and Shiro hiccuped weakly. 

“There there, now,” Keith murmured, and comfort Shiro didn’t ask for or want to accept radiated warmly from the mark on his back. _”Breathe,_ Shiro,” Keith murmured, and what else was there that Shiro could do? He was exhausted, pushed past his every limit, barely registering how Keith’s cock pulled slowly from his body and retracted into Keith’s own. “Thirteen,” Keith said proudly, brightest that Shiro had heard him so far, “a lucky number. Fortuitous for our first clutch.”

“Fuck you,” Shiro said weakly around a half-sob. Keith kissed Shiro’s forehead and pulled a blanket over them.

“You did. Now sleep.”

And like most things in this place, Shiro had no choice but to obey.


	2. Chapter 2

Shiro ached far less than he should, but more than he was fond of. Fortunately, Keith was still asleep when Shiro woke up, and it gave him some time to sort out what was happening in his brain. And body. God.

He did, at least, feel well rested, though he wasn’t sure if the feeling of clarity was genuine or just an illusion from shock that he still hadn’t come up from. He felt fairly numb. But then, he often did, for weeks or even months at a time, before some unrelated catalyst finally sent him into a breakdown well past a normal person’s reaction time. His pragmatic approach to hard situations was what had gotten him so high so quickly, but it was also what had gotten him here.

He was sticky with his own sweat and cum was dried on his belly. There was a bath the size of a private pool on the other side of the wall. The water was just as good a place to try and get his brain online as a bed.

Walking wasn’t terrible, but he moved slowly and held one arm around his bloated belly as he pulled back the curtain, crossed to the stairs, went down precisely two, and then back up the other side and down into the water. It was a perfect temperature, hot but only pleasantly so, and he sank in with a quiet sigh. He let himself just… sit there, for a long while, staring at nothing and trying to make his brain come up with some sort of sensible plan of action, or even just reaction to all of this. His mind remained stalwartly blank. 

So he grabbed soap and a cleaning rag—which wasn’t really a rag in the slightest, even bathtowels were stupidly intricate and beautiful, here—and set to work. When he got to his hair, he faltered, not wanting to remove the beautiful plaits and silver just yet. So he left it alone. If it took forever to dry, well, then, he’d have learned his lesson.

Once he was wrinkly and the heat was starting, only starting, to make him feel a little woozy, Shiro stood carefully and extracted himself from the pool. The towels had a strange sigil on them—not Keith’s sigil, of that Shiro could be sure—that did not _glow_ when Shiro touched the cloth, but they did _something._ Something his human eyes were perhaps not meant to see.

Either way, he needed to dry off, so he lifted the towel from the rung, and then stared with open fascination as the water on his hand and lower arm began rolling towards the cloth, like rain down a window. He touched the towel to the metal elbow of his other arm, and the water there gravitated towards it, also, and Shiro let out a breathy, quiet laugh. He dried off, probably the most thoroughly he ever had, given the magic, and then wrapped a second towel around his hair. He figured if anything would get the braids dry, magic alien fairy towels would be the way to go. 

Keith was awake. He was also still in bed, looking at what Shiro could only guess was the general equivalent of a phone. 

“Morning,” Keith greeted without looking at him, his tail flipping up idly into the air, and then flopping back down on the mattress.

Shiro glared silently, miserably at him, arm over his belly. Keith was not bothered by this at all, and Shiro realized that as far as Keith was concerned, what happened last night wasn’t something to be concerned about. His morality wasn’t _just_ fundamentally different than Shiro’s own, it was beyond the realm of what Shiro knew anything about. Shiro slowly, grudgingly accepted that there wasn’t a lot that staring aggressively could do for him, in this situation. He breathed deep, and approached the bed.

“Not many of your kind have tails,” Shiro remarked, sitting next to Keith. It flipped up in the air again, then landed on Shiro’s lap. He pet over it lightly, the fur soft and surprisingly thick, for the tail’s leanness.

“My mother has one,” Keith said, “I got it from her.”

“And your mother is?”

“Krolia of Veshnu, thirty second of my father’s wives.”

Thirty second. Ha. Fucking hell and goddamn shit.

“That’s a lot of wives,” Shiro remarked.

“Not all of them are women,” Keith said idly, tail twitching when Shiro scritched at a certain spot. “Some have no concept of gender at all, and others exist outside any meaningful binary. One of my father’s wives has three of sixteen genders that her species observes.”

“That is also a lot of genders.”

“Mm.”

“How many wives does he have in total?”

“Fifty seven.”

“That is a _lot_ of wives.”

“He has hundreds of children, which is mostly why he stopped,” Keith remarked, sitting up. “Would you like to see my family tree?”

The question felt so normal. The conversation—asking if Shiro wanted to see what he assumed would be like a photo album of Keith’s family—felt so stupidly, bizarrely normal, and Shiro could barely accept that it was actually happening.

“Why did you put eggs inside my ass?” Shiro asked bluntly.

Keith blinked, but to his credit the change in topic didn’t throw him too hard. “The intestines are a good place to host a clutch. Nutrients can either go into the eggs, or the body of the host, so both parties should ideally be okay.”

“Okay, horrifying but good to know. Why did you put eggs in me _at all?”_

Keith shrugged. “I didn’t really plan on doing it last night, but it would’ve happened eventually, and you told me that whatever was going to happen, you wanted to do it last night.”

“I didn’t mean put eggs in me,” Shiro muttered with closed eyes.

“You didn’t?”

“No, not really! Kind of didn’t think it was even an option!”

“Well how could I have known that?” Keith asked, sounding defensive. More than defensive. Hurt?

Shiro took a breath to answer, but no words came. He hated it, but Keith was right. If lying was the worst crime his kind could commit, then of course Keith took what Shiro said at face value. That he wanted anything and everything Keith would do to him. That Shiro had _asked_ to be filled.

Rationalizing it that way didn’t make Shiro feel any better. 

“I thought you telling me to tell you to breed me was some kinky fantasy. An arousing game for us to play pretend at and not actually do.”

Keith sat on the edge of the bed, legs dangling over, parallel to Shiro’s own, and looked somewhere near Shiro’s chin. “Why?”

“Because that’s the way it works with humans. It’s not an uncommon kink. Actual pregnancy gets _negotiated_ beforehand.” Shiro sounded bitter, and knew he sounded bitter, and didn’t particularly care.

“I…” Keith frowned. Air huffed through his nostrils and his wings vibrated briefly behind them. “We have never encountered a species that communicates the same way we do,” Keith said, “I knew this, and I knew that you and I would struggle to breach that gap before I even saw you for the first time.” Keith lifted his hands to bracket his face, then brought them down in front of him, brows scrunched together, “I do not regret what I did, but I am upset at your distress.” Keith slowly reached out and placed his hand on Shiro’s shoulder. “I cannot apologize, because I am not sorry, but I would like to do something to make you feel better, if I am able.”

Shiro couldn’t name the emotion he was feeling, but he also wasn’t sure if he could feel it. It was a muted, distant sort of rage, sort of disgust, sort of fear, but far away from him. His brain was observing the emotion through layers of glass, in a different room, and he ground his teeth together.

“I need to pee,” Shiro said, avoiding Keith’s half-question. Keith looked momentarily disappointed, but pointed to the door they’d come in through the night before.

“Out of the suite, immediately to the right of the door.”

Shiro vividly remembered the sensation of being caught in a threshold.

“Will I be able to leave the room?”

“Mhm,” Keith affirmed. His indigo eyes were intense on Shiro, staring and not blinking as often as Shiro’s human brain told him he should. Shiro stood slowly—moving carefully again—knotted one of the layers of yesterday’s wedding gowns around his waist, and went out the door, aware of Keith’s eyes on him all the while. Sure enough, he passed through the threshold as easily as he did every door on Earth, and the bathroom was right there.

He could try to escape. It was a stupid thought, a reckless thought, but it was there, present, in his mind. The brand wasn’t keeping him places right then, he could try and bolt.

But he needed to be patient. This place was beyond huge, and he didn’t know how to begin navigating it, and he was laden with heavy eggs and his body was sore. Still not as sore as it probably should’ve been, given, well, everything, but sore enough to warrant caution. Patience, Shiro thought to himself, focus. Wait it out, learn what he could, and escape when it was feasible, not just at the first opportunity. Things were terrible, he thought with his arm over his bloated middle, but he could bear it. At the very least until he got rid of the bulge in his belly.

Making himself go back inside the suite was hard, but the beckoning hallway could be saved for another day. Keith was standing, now, and dressed in a loose black gown with fine red patterning along the hems and edging, and Shiro could already guess that it was going to be decadently soft. 

“I ordered food,” Keith said, pulling a white and purple match from the dresser near the mirror. Shiro caught it when Keith tossed it and pulled it on, right about the softness.

“I’m hungry,” Shiro murmured, just realizing it himself.

“Yeah. You’re going to be very hungry very frequently,” Keith warned, “Part of hosting eggs.”

Shiro sighed, and sat down on the couch. “Keith, you know how you offered to do something to make me feel better?” Shiro asked, rubbing at his eyes. Keith flitted down the stairs with a brief flurry of wings, snapping up but the secondary layer remaining telescoped beneath the interior layer, and then they folded back down when Keith was perched on the armrest of the couch. Shiro managed an idle fascination at that.

“Yeah?” Keith asked, looking at him earnestly, _sounding_ earnest.

“Don’t bring up the eggs in conversation if you can help it. Please.”

Keith nodded, “I will try.”

Keith was weirdly intense, Shiro noted, filtering the observation into the back of his brain, but for the most part Keith’s intensity seemed benign, or at the very least, neutral. He was hard to hate. Shiro blamed it on Keith’s strange, blunt openness when he patted the couch cushion next to him invitingly and said, “You offered to tell me about your family?”

“It tends to be useful information for newcomers to have,” Keith said, slipping gracefully from the arm to a couch cushion. He pulled a holographic screen up from his phone, and a proud looking stranger with old eyes and purple fur flickered into existence. 

“My father, Emperor Kolivan,” Keith said, “He who claimed the empire from Emperor Zarkon before him, and has ushered new prosperity to every land he has conquered.”

“There is no prosperity for conquered people,” Shiro said bitterly. 

“Among your people, maybe. Our ways are not yours.”

“There’s no such thing as a good dictator, Keith.”

“Maybe so,” Keith said, Shiro’s glare faced with a challenging sort of patience, eyes not quite meeting, “But perhaps not, also. I could not call him kind if it were not true.”

“Maybe to you, he is,” Shiro said, “but I actually stayed awake in history class. No matter how nice you think you are, this doesn’t end well for humanity.”

Keith shrugged and turned back to the image of his father. “Believe me or don’t; you’re here, either way.”

Shiro allowed himself to be distracted from his anger by the image changing, showing a group of people, this time. “My father’s first spouse, Antok, who he married for love before he seized the throne.” Keith pointed to a stranger who was as beautiful as they were terrifying. They were larger than the other strangers Shiro had seen, with thick muscles and thicker fat layered over, with devastating claws, a tail, and a jaw that looked, to Shiro, as though it might unhinge. And still, _still,_ they were beautiful, beautiful. “And their children. From their first clutch, my eldest siblings, Lotor and Akira. They’re the ones in line for the throne when my father passes, but last I checked Akira intended to abdicate his claim fully to Lotor and his wife, Allura, since Akira does not think he will be much help. After them came Corelle, Roman, Bandor, Merla, Luka, and Hira,” Keith pointed to each as he named them. “You can memorize them if you want, since they’re my family and you’re going to have to deal with them, but I wouldn’t bother just yet. Hira’s the only one who’s likely to make a bet for the throne and Lotor stays ahead of her too easily for me to really worry about it.”

Shiro found he did not like Hira’s eyes, even the still, holographic version.

“I could go name by name, if you want,” Keith offered, switching the projection again to what Shiro would call a normal family tree, with names next to boxes that housed pictures, and lines connecting said boxes, “but that would take a while and I don’t think you’d remember much. I would prefer to just show you an overview and point out special cases.”

“Let’s do that second one.”

“This is my father’s twelfth wife, Trayla,” Keith said, pointing to a bag-eyed woman. “I find her to be terrible, and usually in hysterics. Avoid letting her suck you into a conversation, and do not let her get you alone.” Keith pulled up another person. “This is my older brother Arutagawa, he’s malicious and thinks torturing people is an acceptable pastime. He’s generally offplanet, but if you see him, run. Don’t try to avoid, don’t hope he didn’t see you. He will see you, and he will want to push the limits of how much he can torment you without Sentry getting involved. Then I would have to get involved, and he can torment me as much as I let him, and that’s terrible for me, so don’t engage. He doesn’t like to chase after things so running’s your best bet.”

Shiro bit down a remark about being right about the torment of conquered people, and instead attempted to memorize Arutagawa’s face.

Keith scrolled down, more of the family tree revealing itself, and Shiro was forcefully reminded that Kolivan had many wives, and _many_ children.

“My mother,” Keith said with a smile, pointing at a fierce looking woman with facial markings and large fangs.”Krolia, and the only child of her clutch,” Keith pointed at the image of himself. 

Keith’s photo was unsmiling. It was a detail Shiro’s brain hung onto, turned over in his mouth like a foriegn hard candy he wasn’t sure about the taste of. He mulled over it, over why he should care, over why he _did_ care, as Keith pointed out a few more siblings, noting one as a potential ally for Shiro to make, having the best rapport with species outside their own. The arrival of food was beyond welcome.

Shiro could hardly remember the last time he had eaten so much. High school, maybe, that first year at the Garrison? And strangely, when Shiro leaned back after eating his fill, Keith perched on the cushion next to him and _nuzzled_ his face. Like a cat.

“Hey,” Shiro said, for lack of a better reaction.

“Hey.”

“Need something, or..?”

“Or what?”

“I’m just wondering what that was.”

“An affectionate gesture. I can refrain, if you dislike it.”

Shiro didn’t. 

He kind of hated that he didn’t.

That became the tone of his life, in short order. Keith was beautiful, and terrible, and kind in a way that made Shiro like him when he wanted, more than anything, to despise him without conflict. To hate him simply and be done with it. He wanted his feelings to be straightforward, but they weren’t.

The fact of the matter was that he liked Keith, liked the way his tail was more expressive than his face, liked the way he couldn’t seem to keep his hands to himself, liked the gentle flutter of his wings whenever something gripped his attention suddenly, liked his voice in Shiro’s ear as he taught him code words and phrases to activate the magic stored in runes and items. He liked the way Keith fussed over him and tried to imply it wasn’t _fussing,_ just showing a reasonable level of concern. He liked Keith’s apartments, which they moved to after three nights in the honeymoon suite, a series of rooms that were just as breathtaking, but far more personal. He liked that Keith insisted on adding trinkets or objects that caught Shiro’s eye, in an obvious attempt to make him feel more welcome there. He liked having someone else in bed with him when he slept. He liked having someone to wake up to.

It was harder and harder to hate Keith. Shiro wondered if he should stop trying to. 

Keith also kept him updated on the happenings and negotiations of Earth. Sam was fine, which was always the first thing Shiro checked for, obsessively. Earth was not yet an apocalyptic hellscape of fire and rubble, its inhabitants slaughtered and enslaved, so that was a plus. The strangers did seem committed to the benefactor facade, employing anti-pollution measures and redistributing the world’s wealth and produce with unparalleled efficiency. 

Shiro wanted to see Sam in person, though, and decided the best way to convince Keith to let him, with certainty, would be to ask when Keith was least equipped to tell him no.

“Can I suck you off?” Shiro asked. Keith hadn’t touched him sexually since their wedding night, and his eyes widened at the question.

“You want to?”

“Yes.” Shiro was now familiar with the fact that short, direct answers were the best kind of answers, when it came to Keith. When it came to all of the strangers, really.

Keith kissed him, and leaned them both back on the bed. “I don’t want to come inside your mouth,” Keith stated, toying with the hem of Shiro’s tunic. “Can I wrap my dick around yours instead?”

“That sounds good,” Shiro said, nodding. Shiro had seen Keith naked, since, in the bath, getting dressed, but it was another thing to touch him. The soft fur of his tail, the sheer sensation of his wings, the muscle of his lithe figure, his smooth freckling scales. Shiro’s hands drank them up, hungry for Keith’s touch; the only touch he really had, in this beautiful place. 

Maybe the isolation, with only Keith to truly talk to, was a factor in Shiro’s like for him. Need for him. Maybe Shiro didn’t really care.

He let Keith strip him naked, not self conscious about Keith’s gemstone, indigo eyes on his skin, and he let himself be laid on his back. His brand (and he’d grown to resent that less, too, its presence only radiating comfort, affection, or pleasure; Keith never used it to hurt him) lit up warm on his back, the curling pleasure snaking its way down his spine. The heavy weight of eggs shifted, settled, and Shiro bit his lip because that, too, felt good to him now.

Keith’s wings fluttered, and Shiro smiled at him, spreading his legs and vainly noticing how Keith’s lips parted, his freckle-like scales lighting up with that almost-glow that Shiro associated with magic. Keith was cuddly, touchy, not much for personal space, but it had been chaste, since that first night. Shiro felt goosebumps shiver along his arms as Keith pressed into him, that time, naked and his cock sliding up against Shiro’s own. Shiro’s eyes slipped shut, lips parted with a little “oh” as Keith’s dick curled, the slick easing its path as it wrapped around Shiro’s own, squeezing it and stroking it while Keith’s hands fondled Shiro’s tits, then slid down to his swollen belly.

“Kiss me,” Keith demanded, but his voice was soft and adoring. Shiro did, the fingers of his new prosthetic (beautiful, silver and purple, with fine motor skills like he’d never dreamed of regaining) tangling in Keith’s hair. He used his other hand to tease around the base of Keith’s tail, enjoying the way it twitched and swayed, excited, as he did. 

Keith stuck his tongue in, and his tongue was _long._ It almost made Shiro gag, and it was flexible, too. But then Shiro moaned, because his lips were forced open by its presence, and it filled his mouth so perfectly. Everything about Keith felt perfect, pressed up against him. Grinding against him, with that slick fucking cock squeezing around him, coaxing him into ready hardness. Shiro felt one of Keith’s hands tangle in his hair, the silver clattering as the plaits were moved, and Shiro moaned again, hoping the _Yes, please!_ was clear around Keith’s tongue. It effectively gagged him, and Shiro had never been so pleased to be gagged.

His hips canted up, jerking in Keith’s hold, and Keith hummed, musical and hot, before sliding his free hand up between Shiro’s shoulderblades. As soon as Keith’s fingers touched the brand, Shiro came with a shout, cum splattering across both their bellies, but his cock didn’t soften at all. He moaned, tilting his head back to reveal his throat, mouth opening a little wider so his own tongue could snake out, return the gesture. It ached so good.

His cock ached too, needing release that Keith wasn’t giving him. His hips thrust up, meeting Keith’s own movements, and the two rocked together on the bed, intertwined, skin to skin and hands to hair. By the time Keith pulled his tongue back into his own mouth, Shiro belatedly realizing the tip of it had been in his _throat,_ Shiro was ready to beg to come a second time.

“Keith,” he rasped, voice gone wrecked and raw, and Keith sucked on the skin of his neck. “God, Keith, please!”

Pleasure that blinded him, radiating down from the brand, forcing another orgasm, but still his cock did not soften even slightly, the need to come did not abate. _”Please!”_

“You sound so good to me, Shiro,” Keith groaned against his neck, hips pistoning shallowly as his dick curled and squeezed and twisted. “You sound so good, please keep going.”

“Keith, Keith, please, let me come, I need to, plea—AH!” Shiro came again, and _sobbed_ when the relief _still_ did not come. “Keith!”

Keith was breathing hard, panting shallowly against Shiro’s neck, arms tight around him, hips rocking, and Shiro hoped it meant he was close, could only _pray_ it meant he was close. He pressed his lips against Keith’s ear, clinging to him, begging, “Come, Keith, please, I want you to, I need you to, let me come with you, Keith, please, give me relief, I need you, please!”

Shiro’s body heaved with another orgasm, cock dry as it twitched, Keith’s wings snapping up and out. Shiro was open mouthed, tongue out, drooling, eyes rolled back in his skull as they came together.

By the time he’d gathered enough of his senses to have any sort of awareness, Keith had already dropped his third egg onto the bed, still clutching Shiro tightly to him. He stopped after four eggs, and Shiro snorted as Keith flopped down on the bed next to him.

“Why so few?”

“My body has only made this many, since the last time we fucked.”

Ah. So it must have been a while, then, between Shiro and whoever had come before him, in Keith’s life. He was glad Keith hadn’t taken his offer to fuck his mouth. Shiro would not have wanted to swallow those.

“What do we do with them?”

“Throw them away, probably,” Keith said. “Sometimes royal spouses want to eat them.”

Shiro gave him a horrified look. Keith shrugged. “I don’t care one way or another.”

“Okay,” Shiro said, voice strangled. “I think I would prefer to throw them away.” 

Keith nodded, then nuzzled Shiro affectionately.

“You mentioned, back when, that there were other royals and their spouses that I might get along with,” Shiro started, figuring it was as good of a segway as any.

“Mhm.” Keith’s tail lifted once, in a lovely arc, then flopped back down on the bed.

“Will I get to meet them soon?”

“Possibly,” Keith said. “I could give Corbin a call and see if they’re available to meet with you.”

“And Sam?” Shiro asked.

Keith stretched. “I will ask my father a second time,” he promised, and Shiro felt his heart twinge. Keith _had_ tried. He was waiting on somebody higher up.

Shiro kissed him, soft and earnest, then murmured, “Thank you, Keith.”

Keith nuzzled him again, and Shiro, clumsily, attempted to nuzzle back.


	3. Chapter 3

Sam was alright. Sam had been just as worried about Shiro, petitioning every chance he’d had to see him. He was horrified about the eggs, and honestly had a much more emotional reaction to it than Shiro had.

A lot of Shiro had been in shock, he tried to explain, and then it quickly became his new normal. He was good at that. Adapting. He didn’t mention how, most nights now, he would curl his arm protectively around his belly and _enjoy_ the swell of it.

Sam brought him up to speed on planetary negotiations. Most of it Shiro had, in fact, heard from Keith. But Sam’s opinions flavored the information, and Shiro learned that people were hesitant to believe it but it seemed as though their new alien overlords were benevolent, after all. 

“It’s incredible, Shiro,” Sam had said with awed respect, “The oceans are all but entirely cleaned of plastics and pollutants, the skies are clearer than they’ve ever been, strange machines do almost all the work but we can’t find anyone left wanting.”

The phrasing, Shiro had grown very used to, was specific.

“But there are people left wanting?”

“We don’t know,” Sam said, “By all reports, everyone is accounted for, except you. No one’s reported anyone missing, there haven’t been _any_ vanishings. Things are just, better,” Sam said with a wave of his hand. “Somehow, impossibly better.”

They talked a while after that. Sam hoped getting to see Shiro meant getting to see his own family again, soon. The strangers had been keeping the leaders close, with vague promises that they might be allowed back on their home planet, sometime, eventually, maybe, possibly. Sam missed his wife and children dearly, and Shiro felt a ping of disquiet.

He shoved it away until after he’d said goodbye, and then allowed himself to think about it, cuddled up with Keith in their living room.

He had no one, really, back on Earth who was missing him. He loved the Holts dearly, of course. Sam was his father, through and through, Colleen was good to him, Pidge was the little sibling he hadn’t known he wanted, and Matt was partially like a brother to him, partially someone he’d had a stupid and persistent crush on. He had friends, colleagues, people he’d served with in the war and was on good terms with. 

But was anyone missing him? Was there anyone Shiro had thought about returning to, in all his time with Keith? Early on, when he’d thought of escape, it had never been about reuniting with anyone, it had always been about getting out of a bad situation. He pressed his lips to Keith’s cheek, and Keith nuzzled him.

He didn’t want to leave now.

“Keith,” he murmured, and Keith looked up at him, violet eyes so beautiful, still never quite meeting his own. That was okay though. Eye contact was overrated. “I’m glad we’re married.”

Keith’s tail thumped, his wings fluttering, and Shiro smiled, kissed him on the lips. 

“I am too.”

Shiro was granted significantly freer range about the palace, after that. He met with members of Keith’s family, including Lotor and Allura, who were beautiful, terrifying, and very, very intelligent. And sappy and romantic. They picked Shiro’s brain clean, involving him in the efforts to alter and improve Earth, and Shiro tried to keep up as best he could. He liked them, but the life of a crown prince was busy, so he rarely saw them.

Most of the strangers had Keith’s blunt way of speaking, but all chimes and bells and sweet musical notes. It made Shiro all the happier to come home to him, to bundle himself up in Keith’s arms and listen to him talk with his wonderful, earthy voice.

He got a magic-alien-phone, too, and got in contact with Sam. When communications opened up between the captured leaders and Earth, not just for business but for personal messages, Shiro touched base with the Holts, letting them know that he was fine, asking how they were, if reports about the globe’s bright looking future were true.

No one quite believed it. Benevolent alien dictators, yeah right. But it looked, by all accounts, to be true.

It was months after their wedding that Keith brought him _home._ His apartments in the palace had been his, growing up, but he no longer _lived_ there. Had only stayed there so Shiro could adjust, and interact with the other strangers and humans before they were sent back planetside. They packed a handful of things, mostly the stuff that Keith had gotten for Shiro, and, with a long hug for Sam before he, too, went home, departed from the strangers’ homeplanet.

Keith’s actual residence was on his mother’s planet, the architecture now familiar to Shiro and starkly different to some of the native housing of the planet’s denizens. Keith showed him around, tail twitching eagerly, wings fluttering every time Shiro mentioned he liked something, and Shiro smiled fondly at how obviously he wanted to impress him. He was moving slowly, the eggs inside him heavy, large. Some of them had broken and been absorbed into the others, which was a process Shiro hadn’t known would happen, and had horrified him the first time it did. He had, if he had to guess, three or four still shifting around inside him.

At the end of the tour, Shiro was tired and hungry, and was all too happy to let Keith drape himself over Shiro and feed him. Savory, slow cooked meats juicy with fat, roasted vegetables loaded with foreign herbs, spiced cider that rolled heavy on Shiro’s tongue, sparkling desserts caked in sugar and fruits. They broke in Keith’s bed with lazy, prolonged lovemaking, slow and sensual and careful of Shiro’s swollen middle, Keith coming between Shiro’s thighs and Shiro coming into Keith’s hand.

They’d returned to Keith’s home just in time for Shiro to lay, it turned out.

Three days after their arrival, Shiro was walking with Keith through the garden when he gasped, arm going around his belly, and Keith barked out something in alarm but Shiro didn’t catch it. He sank to his knees on the grassy path, body spasming in a way he’d never known before, and then Keith was lifting him, carrying him, _flying_ with Shiro in his arms.

“You’ll be alright, Shiro,” Keith murmured, settling Shiro down on what looked like a particularly beautiful, alien hospital bed. The room was low-lit, green, and Keith stripped him out of his clothing while petting at Shiro’s face. “You’re laying the eggs, Shiro, you’ll be okay.”

There were attachments to the bed, braces that folded out for Shiro to hook his knees over, rest his legs on. Keith slid onto the bed next to him, hand to the brand, and Shiro took comfort from the touch of Keith’s palm before his fingers even reached the mark. Keith would take care of him. Nothing _terrible_ would happen to him as long as Keith was there. 

His body shuddered, things _moving_ inside of him, and he gasped, sweat beading on his temple. Keith kissed his skin, arms around him, and he whined, clinging to Keith tightly. Pain, when it came, was quickly washed away, warmth from the brand sinking down his spine until it was soaked up by what hurt, erasing them both. Keith rubbed at Shiro’s entrance, fingers coated in an unfamiliar lotion, something that smelled strongly but not unpleasantly, and Shiro could feel himself start to loosen, quickly.

When the first egg pressed against his hole, he felt certain it wouldn’t come out, not without breaking his body, but Keith’s freckle-scales were glowing “brightly” and the brand radiated comfort and pleasure. So when that first egg pushed through, coming out of Shiro’s spread legs, it hardly hurt at all. It felt _good,_ good in a way that made him gasp and twitch. His cock grew interested, too.

“Keith,” he gasped.

“I’m here,” Keith murmured, petting Shiro’s thigh. When his body finally pushed it out past the widest point, the rest came out fluidly, quick, and Keith kissed his cheek. “I’m going to move the egg. I won’t be gone long.”

When Keith stood up, pain lanced through the pleasant haze, but not nearly as much as there probably should have been. Keith’s freckles were still glowing, as he lifted the egg—reddish-violet in hue, surprisingly huge for something that had just come out of Shiro’s body—and placed it in a device in the corner of the room, something with a glass top that whirred to life when Keith murmured to it, it’s display lighting up.

The next egg pressed against his entrance, and he gasped. Keith was back with him in a moment, arms and hands on him, mouth to his ear, comforting him, encouraging him. Shiro’s cock rose steadily upwards, a little pain and a lot of pleasure sending shivers across his skin as he pushed out another heavy egg.

His chest was heaving, dick at full mast, by the third egg, and by the fourth he was leaking and crying and red in the face, coated in sweat and clinging to Keith. With all four eggs nestled in the incubator, Keith gently laid his legs down flat against the cushy mattress and cuddled up to him, petting Shiro’s long hair from his face and praising him, as much of his body pressed up against as much of Shiro’s as he could possibly manage.

“Keith,” Shiro murmured, his own arms tight as he clung to Keith’s beautiful, beautiful body. “Breed me again.”

Keith blinked at him, stunned, and Shiro kissed him. “Please, Keith, breed me. I want you to. I mean it, this time, I really want you to, I want you to fill me again, I don’t want to be empty. Please, Keith, fill me, breed me, turn me into your private breedwhore, breed me so I’m never empty again!”

Keith was on him in an instant, wings fluttering, tongue shoved into Shiro’s begging mouth. Keith kicked off his pants, not bothering with his shirt, and Shiro sobbed at the _wonderful_ press of his now-familiar cock. Shiro was wide open, gaping, there was no stretch as Keith entered him fluidly in a single go, just pleasure, electric and hot and satisfying. Shiro moaned, pulled at Keith’s hair like he knew he liked, groped his ass and tugged at his tail (which was thrashing delightedly) and swallowed that long, long tongue. Keith let Shiro come naturally, not toying with the brand at all, this time, not drawing Shiro’s pleasure out or locking it like a little fucking tease (Keith could be petty, when he was feeling playful).

And when Keith came, wings snapping open and body locking, gone stock-still, Shiro sobbed with joy at the press of the first egg, clutching Keith so close to him as he was wonderfully, _beautifully_ filled.

They laid in silence, panting hard, Shiro ready to fall asleep for the next month straight right there and then, when it was over. He pressed a sweet, gentle kiss to Keith’s lips, and Keith said, “Yorak Kogane.”

Shiro made a curious noise. “My name. My true name. Keith Yorak Kogane. It’s yours, Shiro. My name is yours.”

And Shiro understood what that meant, now, after months of living with these beautiful strangers. He understood the gravity of what Keith had just given him, unprompted, freely.

So he kissed his husband again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally I was gonna have Keith's shitty brother show up and start a fight and play around with Sentry more, but I ran out of steam so we get gardens and egg-laying instead. This is a gift for my darling sweet beloved, whomst I do adore <3
> 
> Comments/concrit always welcome!! <3


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